


Deconstruction

by Terminallydepraved



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Creampie, Dirty Talk, First Time, Foot Fetish, Hook-Up, M/M, Rough Sex, Trans Vergil, Vaginal Sex, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terminallydepraved/pseuds/Terminallydepraved
Summary: “The more a thing is perfect, the more it feels pleasure and pain.”― Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy
Relationships: Vergil (Devil May Cry)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 82





	Deconstruction

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this for my lovely yougei as a fic for art trade!! im solely blaming him for all the base filth you're about to read, so remember that i am innocent in all of this (angel emoji). i recently read the first dmc novel and it gave me a lot of really fun insight into vergil's character pre-dmc3. did yall know hes a massive lightweight? did yall know he hates the taste of vodka? please give the novel a read if youre a vergil fan. its a bounty you will never want to put down. 
> 
> anyway, enjoy!

All eyes turned towards Vergil the moment he walked through the door. The haze of thick cigarette smoke weighing down the air couldn’t hide the fact from sight. Vergil paused near the door, eyes smarting, and wondered whether he should have bothered stopping here at all. 

He didn’t go to bars. He didn’t drink. Everything about this situation was atypical for him. There were several people milling about the interior and absolutely every single one of them seemed to know he didn’t belong here. 

Vergil tightened his grip on the Yamato’s pommel. It was too late to turn around now. He strode forward and set his eyes on the bar, moving with purpose, head held high. A group of men in the corner broke out in whispers he couldn’t quite make out, nudging one another and nodding in his direction. It made him want to roll his eyes. Simpletons. They probably had never seen someone with actual dignity in their lives and couldn’t quite make sense of it now. 

The thought brought him some measure of ease. His hand loosened on the Yamato. Of course, he was above all of this. So what if he chose to enter this den of iniquity and swill? So what if he’d chosen to grace them all with his presence? None of them mattered. None of them mattered at all. 

With more confidence in his step, Vergil approached the barren bar and assessed the scene. The voices behind him had died down, more or less, or at least became easier to ignore. The bartender was on the far end of the counter, scrubbing away at stains on the wooden bartop that Vergil could tell from here wouldn’t come out without a fight. She spared him a glance but seemed to discern that he wasn’t quite ready to ask for her services. Smart woman. That gave him time to assess her selection of wares.

And at first glance, there certainly seemed to be plenty to assess. Too much, in fact. There were so many options, so many bottles of every shape and size, so many colors and labels he couldn’t quite read from where he stood. How did a person go about choosing? He supposed preference and personal experience had something to do with it, but he’d spent his life thus far training, fighting, running. Drinking for recreation was… almost painfully outside his sphere of comfort. 

Vergil supposed beer was always an option. He’d at least heard of it a time or two in passing. He could smell the hops in the air as it was, mingling with the stronger, oakier scent of the malted whiskeys on the top shelf. Right across from him sat what he could only assume was wine, the bottles dark, the necks slender and long. Those were harder to scent from here, their aromas locked inside their glass traps by the corks wedged down their throats. Wine seemed like a safe option too, something easy to say, easy to feign familiarity with. And hadn’t mother had a fondness for wine? If he thought hard on the memory he could almost remember the smell of it, fragrant and deep. It had tickled his nose when he’d sat in her lap, book in his own, hands holding the pages as he read aloud to her— 

Vergil rested his hands on the scarred surface of the bar. He inhaled the scent of cheap alcohol, sweat, and humanity until it overtook the memory and forced him into the present. Fear painted the back of his tongue with a bitter, almost sour tang. 

Maybe not wine then. Remembering the past was the opposite of what he wanted to do tonight.

As far as birthdays went, Vergil couldn’t say he’d ever really bothered to celebrate. The sort of life he led didn’t lend itself well to such frivolities, and after… after everything that had happened, things like birthdays (shared but not shared) and anniversaries (the dead had no need of such marks in time) had lost almost all meaning. If he could manage it, he did his utmost to ignore the passage of time entirely. 

He didn’t want to remember. He just wanted to move forward. 

Why he changed his mind this time around was beyond him. Nineteen held no more importance than eighteen had, or any of the years before that. Vergil let out a sigh and gave in to the siren call of the stool beside him. He pushed his coattails out of the way and perched himself on the seat, hands first going to his lap before he shrugged off propriety and rested his elbows on the table. He wasn’t going to win any awards for maintaining the vestiges of his upbringing in a place like this, so he might as well not even bother. 

The bartender who had been watching him all the while chose that moment to approach. Vergil lifted his head and narrowed his eyes when a smile was thrown his way. 

“Decide on a drink then, stranger?” the woman asked, leaning over the bar in some sort of attempt to come off as friendly and inviting. She was middle-aged, laugh lines carved lightly into the corners of her eyes. Her dark auburn hair was shot through with strands of silver, limp from the length of her workday. She lifted a hand and tucked a stray strand behind her ear. “What can I get you?”

Vergil looked at the row of bottles again, shifting slightly when he realized he wasn’t any closer to figuring out what he wanted. 

Before he could fumble his way through an order though, something moved in the corner of his eye. Vergil stiffened as someone settled into the seat beside him. His senses told him it was a man, large. A low, relieved sigh seemed to tickle his turned cheek. 

The bartender looked at the space beside Vergil and gave the newcomer a tight, wry smile. “Back for a refill already?” she asked, her hand already going for the stack of glasses peeking out from beneath the bar. “Let me guess; you’ll have the usual?”

A pair of thick, heavy arms settled on the bar next to Vergil’s elbow. Vergil finally turned his head when the man leaned forward, a wide grin on his face that looked out of place given the general atmosphere. “Sure,” he answered in a low, even voice. Then, unexpectedly, his eyes shifted to meet Vergil’s. “And a shot for our friend here. He looks like he could use some warm hospitality.”

The man beside him wasn’t all that much older than himself. At least, he didn’t look it. To be honest, Vergil hadn’t been around enough people to accurately judge ages, but the lack of grey hair, crow’s feet, or haggardness led him to believe that the man before him was closer to twenty than thirty. His smile was bright, his eyes a dark brown. He had the makings of a beard along his jaw, dusty like he’d gone a day or two without shaving. Oil and grease stained his battered jeans. Some kind of laborer. Perhaps even a mechanic. 

Vergil recognized him vaguely as one of the men from the group in the corner. He narrowed his eyes. One that had stared at him as he walked in. 

“I can order my own drink,” Vergil said tersely. 

The bartender pushed a frothing mug of beer towards the man. “Oh, probably,” he said as he took it in hand, waving for her to go ahead and pour the shot anyway. He flashed Vergil another crooked smile. “But let me do it for you anyway.”

The indignation only grew when the small shot glass of clear liquid found its way in front of him. Vergil didn’t know if he should glare it at it or the man. 

“Go on,” the guy said, coaxing and entirely inappropriate given they didn’t even know each other. He leaned in too, just to make matters worse. His firm shoulder brushed Vergil’s; he shied away instinctively. “It won’t bite.”

Vergil scoffed. He eyed the innocuous shot glass. The scent was strong even from here, sharp and altogether unappealing. 

The warm weight returned on his shoulder. “You scared?” that voice asked in his ear, entirely too close. “It’s alright if you are. I can tell you don’t do this often.”

Who was this man? Who was he to speak as if he knew him? Already uncomfortable with the setting, Vergil rankled at the implication. “As if.” 

“Oh? Then go right on ahead. Here—” The mug of beer came close, the glass clinking against the one in front of Vergil. “Bottom’s up.”

Vergil sighed, long and heavy. This man wasn’t going to stop until he drank it, was he? He looked at the drink and pulled a face. It was a small drink. It likely wouldn’t do much to him either way. He picked up the glass from the bar and downed it in one go. 

The second it touched his tongue told him that line of thinking had perhaps been a slight oversimplification. The drink was… astringent, to say the least. It burned his nose and sent every hair on his body standing on end. Vergil forced himself to swallow it for appearance’s sake if nothing else, eyes screwed shut and face burning as a line of fire poured into his belly, connecting the blaze on his tongue to the smolder now set in his core. 

So, that was vodka. 

He really didn’t see the appeal at all. 

“Not your style?” the man asked, all low grumble and artfully rasped tenor. His hand rose up, landed on the small of Vergil’s back. “Y’know, I can’t say I’m surprised at all. You don’t look cut out for the harsh stuff.”

Vergil opened his eyes to glare, shrugging off the man’s touch. “I can handle anything that comes at me,” he bit. It fell short though; his voice wasn’t artfully rasped anything, but weak, rubbed raw. “I just…”

“Don’t care for it?” the man finished, lips curling into a knowing smirk that seemed to stoke the heat running through Vergil’s veins. “That’s fine too. It’s good to know what you want. You’re too good to waste time on subpar options.”

Hmph. Vergil looked back at the array of bottles and didn’t protest the hand when it returned to settle on the back of his chair. “Now that I can agree with.”

There was a pause. 

The weight of Vergil’s chair shifted as the hand moved up the backrest. “What’s your name?”

Vergil narrowed his eyes at his glass. He’d expected that question to come up at some point, but he still hadn’t quite decided how he wanted to address it just yet. Instead of answering plainly, he simply asked, “What’s it to you?”

The man shrugged, hands up in the air as he smiled that annoyingly charming smile of his. “A beautiful stranger walks into my favorite bar and lets me buy him a drink. Can you blame me for being curious?”

Beau— No. That wasn’t the part to focus on. Vergil crossed his arms and sat a little straighter. “What if I don’t want you to know my name?” He hadn’t come here to make friends or… whatever it was this man was after. He’d come for a drink, a moment of normality, and… Vergil cursed his fair skin for giving his every embarrassment away. “How chummy do you expect me to be with a man who won’t keep his hands to himself?”

Tipping back his head, the man burst into laughter. “I think I’m exactly the kind of man you should be chummy with,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I could show you a good time. Here, let me get you a drink you’ll actually like.” He raised a hand towards the bartender to get her attention, but his gaze never left Vergil. “Then you can see if putting up with my wandering hands is worth it.”

The bartender returned before Vergil could formulate a reply. “Got something else you want?” she asked the man, brow quirked in a way that told Vergil that she was used to this sort of behavior from her regular. 

“Let’s see how he likes something sweeter,” he said, nodding towards an oddly shaped bottle on the shelf behind her. “Amaretto sour. Make it a double.”

The bartender rolled her eyes fondly and reached for another glass, pulling out a few different bottles with practiced ease. While she worked, the man beside Vergil took another sip of his beer. He gave Vergil a once-over that lingered a little too heavily to be innocuous. 

“What?” Vergil asked tersely, struggling to keep an eye on the woman’s preparations while watching the strange man for signs of subterfuge. “Is there something interesting about my face?”

The beer clicked as it was set on the bar. “Hmm. You could say that.”

A completed drink found its way in front of Vergil. “Here you go, honey,” the bartender said, plucking a small black straw from a container and putting it in his glass. “You let me know if you need something, okay?”

He waited until she walked away before muttering, “I don’t even know what this is,” under his breath. 

“Give it a try. It won’t bite.” The man nudged his arm with his elbow. “You look like the kind of person that appreciates a little sour with his sweet, so it should be right up your alley.”

Vergil looked at him critically. How could he know that? He rested his fingertips on the napkin beneath his glass, tugging it a little closer. It was… pretty, as far as drinks went, he supposed. There were stratified layers in the glass, a darker red towards the bottom that bled into a lighter yellow towards the top. A single little cherry rested at the bottom of the glass, mingling with the ice. A careful sniff told him it was citrusy. 

It didn’t smell bad. He gave it a cautious sip. 

There was an immediate burn just like the first drink, but it was absolutely easier to handle. Notes of citrus and sugar coated his tongue, a pronounced tang fighting it out with a pervasive but not at all overpowering sweetness. Vergil swirled the mouthful over his tongue and swallowed it, brow furrowed. He gave the glass another appraising look. 

The man leaned forward on the counter, pushing his face into his line of sight. “What’s the verdict, sweetheart? Does it tickle your fancy?”

Vergil found that he couldn’t quite frown with his tongue dancing the way it was. “It’s passable,” he said distantly, lifting the glass to take another inquisitive sip. 

“Glad to hear it. Mind if I ask what brings you ‘round these parts?”

“Why?” Vergil asked, taking another drink. “What’s it matter to you?”

The man shrugged lazily. He was half resting on the counter, his leg pressed against Vergil’s thigh. They didn’t need to be touching. There was plenty of room to sit side by side without it, but he’d purposefully angled himself to make sure they were. “I come here a lot,” he said easily, eyes skimming Vergil, taking in every part of him. “Never seen you around, so unless it’s my lucky day, I figure you’re here for a reason.”

The line earned him a snort. Vergil ran his thumb through the condensation on his glass, swallowing another tingly mouthful. Once his mouth was empty, he heard himself say, “It’s my birthday.”

Vergil stiffened as soon as the words left his lips. He hadn’t meant to say them. It just… slipped out? He stared down at the drink in his hand, a frown rising to the surface. His inhibitions were lowering, weren’t they? He was more affected by alcohol than he initially thought. 

“Your birthday?” The chair scooted ever closer, a hand falling to warm the space between his shoulders. “Well, happy birthday then. How old are you?”

The hand was heavy but somehow still soothing. Vergil let it support him as he listed a little. “Nineteen,” he said blandly, taking another too-big sip through the straw. The burn was becoming negligible. He was growing accustomed to it, perhaps. Or maybe just numb. 

“Fortuna’s a hell of a city to celebrate in. You got family here then?”

Vergil didn’t know what was better, closing his eyes or staring at his slowly depleting drink. In the end he simply muttered, “No.” 

A few moments later, he bitterly added, “I’m all alone.”

The hand on his back paused its petting. Vergil felt it move down his spine, warm, heavy, shifting from his back to his thigh beneath the bar too gradually for him to feel like shaking it off. 

“Sorry,” the man said. And the worst thing was, he actually sounded sincere. 

Vergil drained a good portion of his drink in lieu of processing the thought any more than he already had. His vision had taken on an odd little haze around the edges, his eyes stinging ever so slightly. He blamed it on the drink and grunted. 

“It’s fine,” he said, steadfastly refusing to think of Dante. Of how he might be spending his own birthday so very far from here. “I’m not here to think about it.”

The hand on his thigh squeezed. “Then what are you here for?” 

Vergil stayed silent. He didn’t know, so he couldn’t say. 

Another squeeze. The man’s face drifted a little closer, his warm breath tickling Vergil’s cheek. Vergil turned to face him, only to find himself struck—for lack of a better word—by a pair of dark eyes staring so intently at him. Why was he so close? What was this… this strange sort of energy passing between them? The air felt heavy. It felt… implicative. 

“I think I can guess,” the man said confidently, quirking the corner of his lips upwards into a lazy smirk. He raked his eyes down Vergil’s body, his hand still resting so high on his thigh. “You wanna forget for a little bit, hmm? I think I can help you with that. There’s a little hotel just down the street. Let me show you a good evening. It’s your birthday, right? You deserve something special today.”

A hotel? What? The man licked his lips subtly and something about that seemed to snap the missing pieces into place with an audible click. Vergil’s jaw dropped. “Are you propositioning me?” he asked, intending to make it a hiss but only managing something closer to a squeak. 

“Well, if the shoe fits,” he got as an answer. “You nervous or something? Hook-ups not really your usual thing?”

Vergil felt himself color despite his best efforts at remaining impassive. “Of course not,” he muttered, twisting his nearly empty glass in circles. 

The man hummed. “Oh, I get it. You’ve never done this before. Like, at all.”

It was a delayed reaction on Vergil’s part, understanding what he meant at that. He’d taken another ill-advised sip of his drink when it clicked into place. The alcohol burned when he swallowed it too quickly. He sputtered and twisted around to glare. “How dare you,” he said icily. “You don’t know me at all.”

The man raised a brow. “So, I’m wrong then?” he said breezily, like Vergil wasn’t fooling anyone. Vergil just colored all the more. 

It wasn’t his fault he’d never had a tryst before. He’d never paid much mind to satisfying baser urges like that. If it didn’t make him stronger, didn’t send him further down the road towards his end goals, he rarely gave it the time of day. In fact, everything he’d done so far tonight had been wildly out of character for him. He’d just… given in a little for the sake of feeling something on a day that used to mean so much. 

“I could fix that for you,” the man offered as his hand crept a little higher up his thigh. “That is, if you’re interested.”

Vergil’s hand tightened around the glass. 

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was something else. Vergil didn’t want to think about the why’s. It was easier to act, easier to stomp down on the inner monologue that kept him unapproachable, that kept him alone. It was easier to give up on his drained glass and snag the beer from the lax hand not currently fondling his thigh. It was monumentally simpler to down the last few mouthfuls of the man’s drink before slamming the mug back onto the bar. He stumbled out of the seat and grabbed a handful of rough, oil-stained shirt.

“You better make good on all of this talk,” he said with only a hint of a slur. Their faces were so close together. “I refuse to waste my time on anything less than the best.”

A warm, big hand covered his own, holding it in place against the man’s chest. He slowly stood up from his chair—he wasn’t an enormously tall man, but Vergil found he had to tilt his chin ever so slightly upwards to meet his eyes—and threw on another one of those crooked, charming grins. “I’m not worried about it,” he said easily, shooting a quick glance over Vergil’s shoulder. “I haven’t heard any complaints yet.”

If Vergil cared to think about it for any amount of time, he might have realized that that look was aimed at the group of men back in the corner. A few shrill whistles rose up behind him though, a few inarticulate grunts he couldn’t quite parse out in his slow, hazy state of inebriation. Vergil swiveled his head around and frowned. They were all staring at him, something like… anger in their eyes. Maybe frustration. Had they been watching all this time?

“What are they glaring at?” he asked stuffily, his hand falling away from his target’s shirtfront. He turned more fully, taking a step towards the group. “Do they want to fight?”

“Oh, wow, let’s not go over there,” the man called out behind him, grabbing him by the shoulders to draw him back against his chest. Vergil colored. He could feel the rumble of a deep laugh as it echoed against his back. “We don’t need to go over there, do we?” a voice crooned against his ear. “It’d be a whole different kind of party if you go and involve them too.”

“A party?” Vergil parroted helplessly, still staring at the arms wound around his chest. 

A scratchy, stubbled jaw nuzzled the back of his neck. “Normally I don’t mind sharing, but there’s something about you that makes me want to keep you to myself tonight. You don’t mind, right? I’ll treat you extra special, just so you don’t feel like you’re missing out.”

Missing out on what? A good brawl? The world moved faster than he could process like this, and Vergil wasn’t sure yet how he felt about that. But the embrace was warm, the arms around him promising. Vergil nodded his head, mindlessly agreeing since he’d conceded this much as it was. Tonight was a night to be indulged, he figured. Indulging another seemed acceptable in the current light, at least, so long as it was just this one time.

“Fine,” he said with as much severity as he could summon up. He turned his head away from the group of staring imbeciles and glanced sparingly at the one who held him. “Let’s be on our way.”

The smile that earned him spoke volumes without saying anything at all. 

The walk from the bar to the nearest motel was a blur that Vergil barely processed. His body was metabolizing the alcohol quicker than he would have liked, but the nerves seemed to prolong the effects for him. He registered groping hands, a few more lewd comments, and while the room was purchased for the evening, he suffered through a shamefully memorable pinch to the ass. No amount of hissing or glaring seemed to penetrate the man’s good mood, and when Vergil was ushered through a dark doorway with a slap to his ass, he resigned himself to suffering it for the rest of the evening. 

After all, he’d gone to a bar; he shouldn’t have expected anything else out of the people he found there. 

The same could be said of the room such a ruffian chose to rent as well. The lights went on behind Vergil’s back, but his vision was acute enough to take in the space even before that. It was small, first and foremost. Just a bed, a single nightstand, and an antiquated alarm clock sitting atop it, set to the wrong time. The duvet was flat and bland looking, the pillows so lifeless that Vergil couldn’t imagine them being better than using nothing at all. He took a step and wrinkled his nose at the unfortunately colored carpet; it was a little astonishing how the establishment had found some in a color so perfectly matched to the dirt just outside the door. 

A chin hooked over his shoulder. “Kinda makes you wanna find a blacklight, doesn’t it?” 

Vergil shied away, turning to face the man and the now closed door. “How cheap are you?” he muttered, crossing his arms. He didn’t know what a blacklight was, and he refused to ask. “This place is hardly fit for a termite’s use, let alone mine.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” The man laced his fingers behind his head, as lackadaisical as could be. He gave the room a slow once over before settling his gaze back on Vergil. A slow smile split his lips. “Any bed’s a throne when you lay a princess on it.”

“Wh— Stop saying pointless things,” Vergil snapped, looking at the ugly brown panelling on the opposite wall. Were his ears flushed? They felt annoyingly warm, and he did his best to detract attention from them in any way he could manage. Namely, he moved. He twisted away from view and headed over to the subpar bed. There was no good place to put the Yamato that would leave it within arm’s reach. He pulled it free from his belt and laid it atop the pillows. 

For some reason, the sight of it caught his attention and dominated it for a few weighted moments. The ornate sheath was almost comically regal when compared to its resting place. 

“You really gonna bring your sword to bed with you?” complained a voice behind him. Shifting fabric sounded next. Vergil didn’t break his staring contest with the Yamato. The man was stripping. An odd calm had washed over Vergil despite it, one he attributed to the sight in front of him. 

“It goes where I go,” he said quietly. It always had. So long as his resolve persisted, it always would. 

In some strange, childish way, it felt befitting that they would share in this experience together. 

“Suit yourself.” More fabric, this time hitting the floor. Vergil finally gave in the urge to look, turning his head in time to see the man stretching his arms above his head, his bare chest on display. The moisture evaporated from Vergil’s mouth. Despite his slovenly appearance and abysmal manners, the man had a body that wasn’t at all wanting. He boasted the sort of bulky muscle that came from laboring day in and day out, body built to work as opposed to move quickly or gracefully. A thick thatch of hair covered his chest. It trailed down towards his waistband in a thin line, drawing the eye to follow it down, down, down…

“You gonna take off that coat of yours?” 

Vergil felt his teeth click together, his open mouth closing with a shocking snap. When had he opened his mouth? How uncouth. He cleared his throat and lifted his hands to the lapels of his coat. “Of course,” he said dismissively, eyes skimming the filthy carpet. “Impatient.”

It was only muttered, barely a whisper under his breath, but in such a small room the tiniest of sounds traveled easily. It earned him a laugh that sent another ripple of warmth through Vergil’s extremities. The coat slid off his arms, gooseflesh rising up in its wake. A low whistle cut through the air. His arms were the only thing naked, but when the response was so shameless, it felt like he’d been exposed entirely. 

“Got some nice definition going on,” the man complimented as he strode over to the bed. He plopped down on the edge and began yanking at the laces of his work boots. “Guess that sword isn’t just for show, huh?”

Vergil stayed silent and worked on untying his cravat. One boot hit the ground, then the next. The sound of shifting fabric grew loud in the silence building between them. His fingers danced down the front of his vest, muscle memory unzipping it with more confidence than he truly felt. The cool air stung his bare skin as he slipped it off and folded it instinctively. There was no good place to put each garment. Grimacing resolutely, he deigned to lay them on the floor. 

“So quiet.”

The mattress squeaked as a heavy weight rose from the rusty springs. Vergil kept his back to it; he was stronger than this stranger, faster too. The thought was meant to calm him. It succeeded, but not nearly as much as he would have preferred. 

Vergil sensed movement— He expected a hand to land on his shoulder, maybe feel a set of fingers trail down his bare spine. Instead, a pair of hands reached around him, cupping his chest without so much as a by-your-leave. 

“It’s a shame you aren’t a little bit bigger,” he sighed in Vergil’s ear. His hands were rough, calloused, rolling the pads of his thumbs over his nipples with an intensity that spoke of familiarity with the act. “I’d fuck these first, y’know? Introduce you to my dick before getting down to the main attraction.”

Vergil’s tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. He stood there, stock still, frozen as his chest was… was  _ pawed  _ at by someone he was quickly realizing was an enormous pervert. But while he stood still, the hands did not. They kneaded at him. They  _ fondled.  _ Vergil found himself tugged backwards until his spine met a conspicuously bare chest. Bare skin. Flesh against flesh. 

He instinctively shied away.

“Y-You’re being vulgar,” he stuttered, removing himself from the man’s embrace to cover his chest with his arms. Shame coursed through him, no doubt only exacerbating the flush staining his skin a bright pink. The impression of the man’s hands on his skin burned everywhere they had been touching. After so long of being alone, he could barely suffer the sensation of somebody else’s bare skin against his own. 

“That’s kinda the flavor for the evening, wouldn’t you say?” The man sauntered closer, eyeing him up and down. Vergil could see the confidence in every move he made. They were both half naked, but it was easy to see which of them was more comfortable with it. “If you wanna slow down, all you gotta do is ask, sweetheart.”

“That’s not what I said,” Vergil shot back, forcing himself to drop his arms to his sides. He wouldn’t let himself be outdone by a rough-handed human he found in some sleazy bar. 

Of course, even as he said that he still continued to back away. His back met the wall within three steps. Vergil glanced at the wall, just one fleeting little look before facing forward once more, but even that had been too long. The man was now in front of him, front and center, arms outstretched and hands flattened against the wall, Vergil veritably pinned in every way that mattered. 

“I’m glad,” he said, voice dropping an octave as he moved his face closer to Vergil’s. His breath smelled like hops and mint. “I’ve got a lot of plans for the two of us tonight.”

Vergil fought the sudden urge to turn away. A thigh found its way between his legs. Something… tingled in the base of his spine. The thigh rubbed closer, applying pressure. A soft huff of air escaped him in return. 

“Why don’t we get you out of these?” the man offered, lowering one hand to tug a finger into the waistband of Vergil’s trousers. He bared a sliver of hip bone with the move. “That is, so long as you haven’t changed your mind.”

Vergil scoffed. The unspoken challenge was all too loud when he worded it like that. Who was this human? Who did he think he even was? Vergil lifted his hands and pushed the man’s shoulders away, shoving him back a few steps. “Don’t taunt me,” he sniped, dropping his hands to his belt. Shame licked at the tips of his ears, at his cheeks, but so long as he moved quickly, he could outrun it. 

As he fumbled with the belt, he took a few steps towards the bed. It made it all the easier to strip when those watchful, heavy eyes were on his back instead of his front. Vergil kicked off his boots and peeled the tight fabric of his trousers down his legs. Once they hit the floor, he crawled his way onto the bed to sit down. Only then did he bother looking at his audience. 

He regretted it when he did. There was no misconstruing the look in the man’s eyes, no ignoring just how ravenous he looked as he took in Vergil in his entirety. 

“Stop staring,” Vergil ordered weakly, crossing his legs to hide away the part of him he’d never let anyone else see. “It’s unseemly.”

The man closed the distance between them in an instant. Vergil shifted on the scratchy bedspread but didn’t back away. He loomed tall and imposing over Vergil like that, one knee braced on the bed to stabilize himself as he crawled towards him. He reached out a hand and settled it on Vergil’s knee. Vergil flinched; this time, though, he didn’t pull away. 

For a moment, Vergil tried to imagine the picture he made on the bed. He knew what he looked like, had thought here and again that he had pleasing features, a comely face. His body was toned and lithe by necessity, his demon heritage easing the wear and tear that would have been present had he only been human and trained the same way. The warmth on his cheeks and shoulders would tint his skin a pale pink. If he bothered to spread his legs, he was sure he’d find himself damp and ruddy. 

His arms came up to fold over his chest, hiding it from sight. It didn’t make him feel very covered, but it helped. 

“You’re gorgeous,” the man breathed as he moved his hand to Vergil’s shoulder and coaxed him into laying down. “Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Ugh. Even if it was true, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. “Spare me the poetry,” Vergil replied, looking away when his voice threatened to shake. He buried his hands in the bedspread, reminding himself that the Yamato was just above his head. He had protection. He was the most dangerous thing in this room right now. 

Of course, something like that was a little hard to keep in mind when both of the man’s hands moved to wrap around his crooked knees. Vergil found it impossible to hold back the sound of surprise that left him when those big, rough hands forced his legs open. Vergil stiffened, caught between covering his chest and throwing his hands between his legs to hide his privates. 

“You brute!” he yelped, face on fire as those dark, appraising eyes took him in. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Just taking in the main attraction,” he answered, letting go of one leg to run his fingers over Vergil’s folds. “Just look at you. So pretty down here. You excited, sweetheart? You gonna get nice and wet for me?”

Vergil twisted against the bedsheets. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the man staring down at him. “You’re so crass,” he muttered. Flickers of  _ something  _ rippled through him with every assessing touch that hand gave him. “Do you even know how fortunate you are to see me like this? Show some gratitude.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m grateful.” Those hands kept touching him, fingers prodding, stroking, shifting from the crease of his thighs to knead at his hips when he started to fidget and shake. The man squeezed his hips and gave a pleased purr of, “You’re way too pretty to take for granted. Just look at these hips you’ve got. Nice and plump. It’s all that discipline you’ve got, isn’t it? I can feel it when you move. Fuck, just thinkin’ about how you’d look riding me makes me wanna do a little dance.”

Vergil swung out his foot, aiming for the man’s leering face. Of course, if he wanted to kick him he would have, easily. If he wanted to do damage, he could’ve. But something about the situation lessened the blow, coaxed him into pulling the majority of the force before it could connect with something delicate. 

The flat of his foot met a stubbled cheek. The rasp against his arch was… interesting. Novel. Vergil pursed his lips and chided, “What did I say about being crass?”

Instead of batting his leg away, the man gave a humored snort. He let go of a hip to wrap his hand around Vergil’s ankle; a shift of his head and the parting of his lips brought the flat of his tongue against Vergil’s toes. Vergil let out an unseemly noise and tried to rear back— but the hand held his ankle firm.

“What— What are you  _ doing?”  _ Vergil squeaked, letting go of his chest to grab at the pillow beneath his head. 

A loud, wet,  _ filthy  _ kiss slurped against his heel. The man broke away from the… the kiss to give him a pleasant, gentle smile. “It came at my face so I assumed you wanted me to give it some attention,” he said breezily, rolling the pad of his thumb into the arch, digging in with a considerable amount of skill. 

Vergil felt the tension ease from his body against his will. He let out a soft wheeze, fingers digging into the pillow, his leg held aloft in a way that left him entirely exposed. “That’s… filthy,” he complained, voice airy and absolutely bereft of any weight. “Where is your shame? Licking at my foot like a… like a d-dog—” 

As he spoke, the man grew bored. By the time Vergil moved on to insults, he’d already gone back to his licking and sucking and kissing. Vergil squirmed and struggled to hold back the whines clawing at the roof of his mouth. It was a slow process, so gradual he refused to see it at all. The fight in him began to die when kisses began raining down the length of his foot. 

Of course, that was before he heard the loud, unmistakable sound of a zipper splitting the air. 

Vergil opened his eyes just as the man stopped assaulting his foot with his tongue. His free hand was shoved beneath his waistband, pulling out his— 

“What are you doing now?” Vergil demanded, trying and failing to keep his tone from sounding scandalized. That was the man’s… his… 

“Doesn’t seem fair that you’re having all the fun,” came the amused reply. Out came his cock next. The man tipped his head back to groan as he gave it a few quick strokes. The flushed head peeked out with every move of his hand. 

Vergil looked at the wall, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He’d never seen a cock before, and while part of him had the morbid sort of curiosity to keep looking, the greater part of him couldn’t bear to get a closer look. It looked… big, from what he’d been able to see of it. How was all of that supposed to fit inside him?

As he pondered the question, he vaguely registered that his ankle was being moved once more. They must be ready to move to the next activity. What that could possibly entail, he didn’t know either. His heel skimmed rough denim. Then, it pressed against warm, almost overheated flesh. 

Vergil stiffened as he turned his head until he faced forward once more. He took in the sight blankly, unable to comprehend  _ why his foot was between the man’s legs.  _

Another low groan sounded above him. “There we go,” the man murmured, rocking his hips forward to drag himself along the sole of Vergil’s bare foot. “You’ve got such soft, pretty feet. You’d make a killing with them if you knew how to use them right.”

What… What on earth? Vergil’s face felt like it was on fire. He couldn’t bring himself to move his foot an inch, let alone draw it back. The firm length of the man’s cock felt… Was it simply the angle? Was it something else that made it feel like he could feel it from his heel all the way up to his toes? How big was it to be able to convey that much space? 

Vergil sank his teeth into his bottom lip and regretted it when he immediately tasted blood. The tang of iron added another note to this already overwhelming situation. The demon in him luxuriated in the carnal, in the sanguine; if he wasn’t careful, he’d lose control entirely.

“Just like that,” the man growled, wielding him by the ankle to drag his foot against his straining cock. 

Vergil cracked open an eye only to close it immediately when his fears were confirmed. “How did that fit in your trousers?” he hissed, curling his toes instinctively around the burning, slick bulb that made up the tip of his cock. It wasn’t the size of his foot, as it turned out; it was somehow longer. 

“Careful. If you talk too much about it, you’ll only make it bigger.”

That wasn’t real. That couldn’t be something that would actually happen. And even if it could, Vergil refused to allow it. He scoffed and looked away, but that didn’t help deter the man from using his foot as his own personal sex toy. Low, steady grunts rose up as Vergil stroked his foot along the man’s cock, and before long his other ankle was snagged, his other foot brought into the mix, the heated piece of flesh sandwiched between them like a glorified… 

Well, Vergil didn’t have a word for what it looked or felt like. He was beginning to realize his vocabulary was startlingly lacking when it came to things of a carnal nature. 

But what he lacked in understanding, he made up for in pride. Vergil squared his jaw and yanked his feet away, dragging them towards his chest. He wrapped his arms around his shins and sputtered, “Don’t do that!” 

“Don’t be like that, we were just gettin’ somewhere good,” the man laughed, completely undeterred. He simply wrapped his hand around his cock and resumed stroking it that way, cheeks tinted beneath his stubble with the arousal bleeding off him. He gave Vergil a lingering once-over and let out a sigh. “You must be getting impatient. I can dig that. I think I’m ready for the main event myself.”

Vergil loosened his grip on his legs. He quickly resituated them, only just realizing how exposed he’d made himself in his efforts to get away. “Ready for what?” he asked shrewdly. Hopefully not more feet… antics. 

The man shifted closer, walking towards him on his knees. He reached out with his hands and closed them around Vergil’s thighs, spreading them easily and dragging him across the sheets until he was fully pinned. Rough, calloused hands ran up and down his legs, fondling and squeezing at regular intervals. “For this,” the man said as he let his gaze linger between Vergil’s legs. “Christ, you’re pretty down here. All pink and lonely.” 

He flicked his eyes upwards, meeting Vergil’s wide-eyed stare. “But don’t worry,” he said as he pushed Vergil’s hips and coaxed him to roll over. Vergil didn’t put up a fight. He rolled onto his stomach and sucked in a sharp breath when the hands on his hips lifted him a little. “I’ll give you some company real soon.”

Vergil’s life hadn’t been one of much formal education. He’d had a rudimentary education as a child before everything happened, and he’d been advanced as far as things were concerned in terms of reading, writing, and arithmetic. The rest he’d picked up through books along the way, from consulting with experts in the occult and demonic. 

When it came to the physical sciences, Vergil had thought he’d been well versed. 

Right now though? Right now, he felt his education was woefully inadequate. 

He knew the basics, of course. He knew how basic intercourse occurred, the mechanics of it. He understood why there was something blunt suddenly nudging him between his legs. He understood why the way was slick too. He was aroused. So was the man on top of him. 

“There we go, that’s the fucking ticket,” that voice kept muttering, his thick arms bracketing Vergil’s shoulders as he pressed into the mattress for leverage. His cock was hard, hot, almost throbbing as he rocked and rubbed against him, spreading slickness with every thrust of his hips. “So wet for me, aren’t you? Barely even touched you and you’re already like this.”

It was biological, Vergil wanted to say. Just a physical response to basic stimulus to an area surrounded by more nerve endings than almost any other place on his body. 

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to say much of anything when cold logic felt better than anything he’d ever experienced before. 

That was something the books didn’t explain. How could simple words convey something like this?

Vergil lifted his hips higher, heedless of the hands guiding him. There was something so primal about this position. It was as if his body already knew what to do, how to move. The head of the man’s cock caught at his opening, pressing firmly but still resisting the inevitable. Vergil clawed at the bedding and gnashed his teeth. They felt as if they were beginning to sharpen. 

Vergil couldn’t bring himself to resist the urge to impale himself any longer. 

The stretch. The burn. Vergil had felt nothing like it in his entire life. It wasn’t painful in the same way a stab wound was, or a bite from a demon could be. This felt more like a muscle ache, like something he’d trained long and hard for and had to pay the price of for some time after. Vergil stifled a groan before it could leave his throat. He reached out a hand and clasped the Yamato’s slick scabbard. He hadn’t felt a need to draw it yet, but even feeling it in his hand brought a measure of comfort amid the unknown. 

“Oh, shit, fuck, shit,” that deep, rugged voice groaned above his head. “So tight. You gotta stop clenching, baby, else I’ll never get inside you.”

Another half-smothered sound died on the back of Vergil’s tongue. He closed his eyes and relaxed his lower body, matching his breathing to an internal rhythm that usually served him best during his sword form practice. The blunt instrument sank into him another few inches in response. Vergil spread his legs wider and arched his spine like a whore. 

Above him, the man choked. The bristly, scratching feeling of his hair rubbed against Vergil’s skin. “Balls deep already,” he said, voice strained and breathless. “You’re amazing.”

Vergil tightened his grip on the Yamato. “Move,” he snarled, traces of the demonic threading through his words like windchimes. Slick gushed down his inner thighs. He closed his eyes and moaned when the man obeyed. 

The rhythm started out slow, but only initially. Vergil didn’t have the patience to suffer through something gentle and tender for long. Even when it hurt it still felt good. He moved his hips to meet every thrust, letting his eagerness encourage the man to let go of his inhibitions and treat him as roughly as he pleased. 

And he was treated roughly.

The sound of wet skin smacking against wet skin filled the room. A thick, musky scent filled Vergil’s nose. The man held his hips so tightly that it might have bruised a normal human, and Vergil didn’t need to look to know that those thick, muscular forearms were bulging from the effort of slamming him into the man’s pelvis. Vergil panted faster and faster, sweat stinging his eyes. His fingers slipped on the smooth surface of the Yamato, and he let go of it completely to brace himself against the bed, bettering his leverage to meet every single thrust that came his way. 

Beneath the sound of wanton flesh came a rhythmic, high-pitched yowl. It took Vergil a few minutes to realize where it was coming from, and then another few after that to be ashamed of his own sordid lack of self control. His mouth was hanging open now, every pleasured moan falling freely from his lips. They grew louder on every outward pull, then choked with every inward thrust. In and out. In and out. It was as if the noises were being fucked out of him. 

Like he was a well-oiled toy, practiced and predictable. 

Vergil immediately buried the thought as deeply as he could manage. It was too vulgar. This man was making him vulgar. 

“You like that? Oh, fuck, I bet you do. You’re clamping down on me so tight. Tight little pussy, that’s what you’ve got. You feel it? You fucking love it. Love that fucking voice.” The words wouldn’t stop— hadn’t from the start, though Vergil only now found the wherewithal to pay attention to it. The hands on his hips shifted a little, gripped him a little lower. “God, you’re good. Let’s see that pretty face.”

The words were punctuated by a rough laugh, one that hit him like a warning sign. Vergil opened his eyes, began to turn his head, but was too slow to realize that the pace was stopping, that the hands on his waist were tightening and already rolling him over. He landed roughly on his side, then toppled over onto his back. Vergil let out a weak yelp, legs spread, cheeks damp and burning now that he was entirely on display. 

The man hovering above him cupped his face in his big hands. “There it is,” he breathed, wiping some of the tear-tracks—and when had he started crying? So weak of him—away. “I think you’ll like it even better like this.”

Like what? On his back? There was no time to ask. His hips were seized, lifted, that slick cock finding its way back home inside him as if it’d never left to begin with. Vergil twisted his head around, groaning as the pace resumed. He hadn’t imagined it would feel different, doing it from the front instead of the back, but he was wrong. There was more eye contact, for starters. He had no place to hide from those watchful, gleeful eyes, and nowhere to run when a hand slipped between them to rub teasingly at the sensitive flesh beneath his mound. Vergil shuddered. What— What was that?!

“Oh, you like that, don’t you, honey?” Another rub, this time coming in the form of a small, teasing circle. All it took was the pad of the man’s thumb to send ripples of intense pleasure tearing down Vergil’s spine. He twisted his head against the pillow and felt saliva begin to trickle down his chin. “You like it when I rub your little clit? Should’ve eaten you out before I fucked you. Bet that would’ve made you  _ scream—”  _

Vergil clenched down tight around the man’s cock as his body arched and spasmed independently of his will. The man let out a sudden groan, fucking faster suddenly, and harder. The hand on Vergil’s… Was it his clit? Was that what it was called? The hand paused it’s assault to grab his hip for stability as the man roughly, inelegantly, pounded into him with all the strength he had to offer. The tension built in Vergil’s core, so unlike anything he’d ever felt before. It wound him tighter and tighter, sent him crying out louder and louder, until…

Until it burst somewhere deep inside him and erupted like the most pleasurable death imaginable. 

Critical thought failed him in that moment, reducing him to just sensation. It was… primal, in a sense. A full surrender to a stronger foe, a submissive need to cut off all senses to just  _ feel.  _ Vergil collapsed limply onto the mattress and vaguely processed the man rutting into him like a dog. In just a few short thrusts, he too stopped to groan pathetically. Something hot and viscous burned inside of Vergil, eliciting another weak mewl from him. He had a feeling he knew what had just happened, but the animalistic part of his brain still functioning right now embraced it. Welcomed it. 

He hadn’t expected any part of him to feel this way about an act this… this human. As the man pulled out of him and more of that thick wetness trickled out, Vergil covered his face with his hands. He hadn’t known what he might feel after giving in to a request like this. But he knew now. If nothing else, he’d learned a new truth about the half of himself he rarely indulged these days. 

Sex was base. Sex was filthy. It was a purely human instinct that yielded little in the way of growth, power, or knowledge. 

And yet. 

And yet Vergil still found himself lost in the tidal wave of pleasure, made weak by the efforts of another.

Hiding his face was cowardly. Immature. He still couldn’t make himself move his arm. The darkness was comforting, the illusion of cover too good to let it go just yet. Every inch of him felt used, sore and flushed, damp with sweat in some places and sticky with… other things everywhere else. He was such a mess. He’d let a man turn him into such a  _ mess  _ and he struggled to reconcile it with the pleasure still tingling in the tips of his fingers and toes. 

What a strange thing to do with a body. 

What a strange thing he’d let a stranger do to _ him. _

A few minutes passed before something happened to break him from his thoughts. 

“Fuck, that was good.” The bed bounced as a body left its confines. “You sure you’ve never done that before? You’re a natural, baby. Absolutely perfect.”

Vergil grunted quietly. He still couldn’t bring himself to show his face. His thighs were trembling. There was… There was something wet and hot leaking out of him, and he found himself too disoriented to check and see what it was. 

The sound of shifting fabric broke him from his spiralling thoughts. Vergil uncovered a single eye and sat up when he found the man dressing himself across the room. But it was a mistake to move so quickly; the change in gravity made whatever was inside him leak out all the faster. Vergil looked between his legs and saw a mess of thick, white substance coat the upper bedspread. It stuck to his thighs, to his mound. He pressed a hand between his legs and tried aimlessly to keep it from ruining anything else. 

The touch elicited a wince though. He felt… sore down there. It wasn’t horribly painful, but the slightest pressure made his sensitive parts feel as if they’d been rubbed raw. Which made sense, he thought vacantly. In essence, that was what had happened. 

“What are you doing?” Vergil asked, finding his voice was just as raw as he felt everywhere else. The man had done up his trousers already, and was just about finished pulling on his shirt. 

A shock of dark hair popped out of the collar. The man gave him a curious look that morphed into a lazy smirk. “God, that’s a good look on you,” he remarked. “Wish I could stay and admire it a little longer, but I’ve gotta get going.”

Vergil swallowed, schooling his expression into calm neutrality. “Where are you going?”

The man snagged his boots from the floor. He shrugged as he forced his foot into one, then the other. “I dunno yet,” he said easily, like it didn’t really matter where he ended up. “Figured I’d head back to the bar. Left my boys there. They probably wanna hang before we end up calling it a night.”

“I see,” Vergil said numbly. Those men from before. The ones who had stared. 

“Feel free to keep the room for the night,” he went on, tying up his laces without a care in the world. “I paid enough for the night, so there’s no need to clear out if you’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Vergil didn’t. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.

The man rose to his feet and dusted off his hands. He gave Vergil a heated look, staring intently at the space between his legs. “Thanks for the sweet evening,” he said, licking his lips. “You were great.”

Vergil said nothing. 

The man paused about halfway to the door. He looked at Vergil carefully, something soft passing over his face. “That is,” he said quietly, “unless you want me to hang around a little longer?”

Vergil’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t have a name for the expression directed his way, but he had an idea. It was painfully close to pity, and he grinded his teeth together to keep from snarling at it until it went away. 

“No,” he said harshly, tearing at the bedspread until it covered his legs, his waist, his chest. “You can leave.” 

There was nothing more he needed from this man. There was nothing more he could give him anyway. 

“Oh.” The tone was quiet, a little hurt. “Well… if you change your mind, I’ll be down at the bar. Just ask for Riley. You’ll find me.”

Vergil bit his tongue. He turned his eyes towards the wall and didn’t bother to look away until he heard the door to the room open and close. 

It was almost painfully obvious that he was alone now. His breathing was… so loud now that the man’s— Riley’s. Now that Riley’s vibrant energy was gone. The air felt different, more static. Heavier. Vergil stared at the door, at the thin lines of light that shined through the edges. His hips felt sore. His skin, wet and clammy. 

The bed was warm at least. The blankets weren’t soft, but they were softer than many things he’d suffered before. 

Vergil felt hollow. 

He wasn’t sure what could be done about that. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope yall enjoyed it! if you did, consider leaving a comment to let me know! and if you wanna, feel free to check out my twitter @tdcloud_writes for more dmc funtimes and my website (tdcloudofficial.com) for info on my original work. until next time!


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